


Deserving

by december_dream



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Biting, Cheating, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Guilt, I promise I love him, Insecurity, Manipulation, Post-Time Skip, Smut, Toxic Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, he's actually the love of my life, i made people love daishou in my last fic so now i have made him an asshole, if you squint he might have a crush but that was unintended, implied depression, implied eating disorder, kenmas an amazing friend, washroom sex, when you base the readers fears off of your own and realize that maybe you're a little insecure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29172261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/december_dream/pseuds/december_dream
Summary: The first time it happened, you didn’t know - at least not when the night started. But how can you justify letting him crawl into bed with you when you do know?
Relationships: Daishou Suguru/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Deserving

**Author's Note:**

> so there wasn’t supposed to be any actual smut in this but i’m so stupid and horny on main that i couldn’t stop myself.   
> please keep ing mind that this is an extreamly toxic relationship, this is not love in any way, shape, or form this is manipulation.

“I don’t even watch volleyball,” you scoff.

There's shuffling on Kenma’s end of the line, “Yeah, I know how clueless you are but my friends are forcing me to go to this after-party.” Again, there's more shuffling, a little bit of grunting as he gets up - you cringe when you have to listen to him swallow something (he makes some pretty gross throat noises). 

“That concerns me how?”

“Because if you’re there my friends can’t bug me.”

You shift on your bed, pulling your throw blanket farther up, “Again, how is this my problem? Just don’t go.” You drop some fossils off at your museum, barely paying attention to the dialogue.

“You’ve obviously never met Kuroo, Lev, and Yamamoto.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying-”

“Please?” You’re not used to Kenma sounding so desperate, “I’ll buy your clothes and everything.” 

“Oh, so it’s a formal event?” You tease, making your way to the shop, shaking a tree along the way to grab some peaches, “What, do you need me to go as your date?”

“Absolutely not a date,” he scoffs, “just a plus one that I can use as an excuse not to socialize.”

You lean back as the loading screen pops up, running a hand down your face and glancing out at the inky black sky, “Yeah, alright.” You hear a sigh of relief on the other end of the line, “Only if you throw in some cherries, too - and coconuts!”

He sighs again (this time in annoyance), “You’re insufferable when you barter, but fine.”

So that's how you ended up standing in the corner of a party with Kenma (who was shockingly well dressed), only a few hours later, in shoes with just a little too much heel - you suppose the shoes were payback for swindling him out of his fruits earlier in the night; he can be so petty sometimes. 

“ _ Kenma! _ ” A loud voice causes you to jump, but your friend only looks mildly irritated. A tall man with black hair waves wildly at the streamer. 

“Hi, Kuroo.” The smaller of the two men says quietly.

The raven-haired man smiles widely before taking notice of you, “Hey there!” Kuroo towers over you, even unintentionally.

“Kenma dragged me to this - I’m (L/n).” You give a small wave, wobbling slightly in your shoes as you attempt to alleviate your ankles for a moment. You notice Kuroo perk up as he glances behind you.

“There he is!” He hollers, making you jump once again, “Everybody's favourite player, the MVP! You didn’t even have to kiss the refs-”

“ _ Shut up, _ ” A chuckle comes from behind you - you go to turn and catch a glimpse of whoever Kuroo was talking to (it might be Yamamoto based on what Kenma had told you on the way over; spoilers: he didn’t tell you who was playing  _ or _ who won); unfortunately, your shoes decided to make things difficult.

You fall face first into someone’s chest, ankles threatening to roll before someone grips your biceps. “Sorry!” You squeal, trying to push yourself up, but your legs just  _ won’t _ stabilize, it doesn’t help that you’re met with a pair of enthralling green eyes, “My friend, he - um - he chose my shoes and I’m not used to them.” You’re not sure what’s more embarrassing: that you fell into a cute stranger or that you fell into one of the people this party had been thrown for.

“Kuroo why would you force her to wear these, she can’t stand!” The man’s insistent on supporting you as he looks to the other man.

“Don’t look at me - Kenma brought her,” 

The man above you  _ tsk _ ’s before looking to Kenma who was entirely absorbed in his phone. “You shouldn't be so sadistic to your girlfriend.” He says, pulling you up and wrapping an arm around your waist, ever respectful of where he places his hand on your side.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Kenma pulls a distasteful expression, glancing up at you before going back to his phone.

You glare at him, holding onto the man you still don’t know the name of, “I think I’m owed compensation.”

“For what?” Kenma scoffs, cracking a sarcastic smile as he rolls his eyes.

“Being your friend, for one,” you say, no real bite behind it; Kuroo and the man laugh, “I’m serious - at least 1, 200 bells.”

“Whatever (L/n),” Kenma goes back to his phone, regretting that he brought you along.

“So that’s your name,” the man beside you repeats it twice, almost testing it out - you look up at him, enamoured once more only this time by your name rolling off your tongue, “I’m Daishō.”

Out of your field of vision, Kuroo shifts uncomfortably - lightheartedness towards his former rival diminishes as he watches him talk with you; but he trusts Daishō, so he won’t say a word.

The night progresses, Kenma stays in the corner on his phone - you, however, have found a new friend in Daishō who proudly boasts about his years in volleyball, current and former.

Admittedly, you hang off of every word, taking note of how his lips move to form terms you don’t know the meaning of.

“So, the other team’s guy does this powerful spike and it’s coming straight for me,” he says, fully aware of how entranced you are, “then I perform this crazy dig and send it back at him - knocked the wind out of me when I landed, but it was worth it for the final point.” He rolls his shoulders as if to appear indifferent about it.

You stare at him over the drink he had insisted on getting you because ‘ _ you should sit - you look like you’re going to fall over _ ’. “That sounds amazing, I wish I could’ve seen it in person.” You praise him despite knowing how arrogant he’s being, how this is going straight to his head, “Is your back okay, though? You didn’t land on it too hard, right?” He’s got this charisma about him that forces you to stroke his ego.

He does a quick once over of the people in the crowd before turning back to you, “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “you think you could handle me?”

You’ve been flirting with each other all night - you shouldn’t be surprised over his words. “Yea, I, I think I could,” your voice is barely above a whisper but he hears it loud and clear, regardless of the party raging around you.

He tugs at your wrist, pulling you to your feet with a coy smile.

It’s hazy, the trip from your seat to the washroom - all you can think about is Daishō and his skin against yours and how pretty he looks under the dim lights of someone's penthouse.

The next thing you know, calloused hands are gripping your thighs and hoisting you onto the sink basin, lips bruising against yours as your back hits the mirror from the sheer force of him. It feels entirely too warm as you pant against each other's mouths, whimpers and hums of contentment as he licks into your mouth, sucking on your tongue when you attempt to do the same.

“ _ Dai- _ Daishō-”

“Suguru.” He corrects, mouth migrating towards your jaw; he nips at the skin below your ear, “I bet you make the prettiest sounds,” his hand grips the ends of your hair (it hurts more, but you like it). He pulls away, staring into your eyes as his other hand moves to thumb at your bottom lip, “You gonna be a good girl and let me hear them?”

You nod pathetically as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, your tongue laving over it, eyes turning glossy under his gaze - he’s so degrading without saying anything.

“Good.” His thumb presses down on your tongue, forcing your mouth open; it doesn’t hurt, but he keeps your mouth open as drool pools. His hand leaves your hair, pushing past the skirt of your dress to find the wet spot forming on your panties.

A gargled noise makes its way from the back of your throat when he pushes against your slit - it has been so agonizingly long since you’ve had a good fuck, you’re embarrassingly desperate, “Want, want you,  _ pluh _ -please,” you slur around his finger.

“Without any prep?” He watches you squirm, the way drool’s beginning to slide down your chin, “What are you, a masochist?” He presses his thumb against your clit, harder than what you’re used to.

You keen, jolting with pleasure - you feel warm under his gaze like he’s scrutinizing your every move, “Suguru,” you whine, hand reaching for his crotch.

“Fine, but you’d better not complain.” He doesn’t even bother undressing, only shimmies his pants and boxers halfway down his thighs before rummaging through a drawer, mumbling something about ‘ _ what kind of fucking virgin doesn’t have condoms? _ ’

It’s not safe, you  _ know _ it’s not, but your brain is so clouded that you mumble, “I’m… I’m on the pill.” The gratification you feel when his eyes light up - he’s gotta have you under some sort of spell.

“You wanted to get fucked, didn’t you?” His eyes narrow as a grin spreads across his face, “You’re just a little slut who wanted to get it raw from a stranger, right?” He runs his tip against your clothed slit, revelling in the tiny gasps and moans your let out. “Answer me or I stop.”

He wouldn’t leave you like this, would he? You don’t want to take that chance. “Yes,”

“Yes, what?” 

“I wanted to get rawed by a stranger,  _ oh _ -” you gasp as he pulls the crotch of your panties to the side and pushes in fully, not giving you time to gradually adjust; the stretch hurts but some sick, embarrassing part of you loves it. Your hands fly to his back looking for something to ground you - you settle on fisting his shirt.

“There better not be a scratch on me when we’re done,” he pants, thumb rolling your clit to help you adjust. He loves the way you whimper in an attempt to voice your compliance.

You begin squirming against him, wanting more; you can feel every inch of him inside you, filling you up so good, “Move, please move,” you want to slump forward against him, but he doesn’t let you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He chuckles, snapping his hips once and listening to your moan, “You’re such a whore.” he bites your shoulder, licking over the teeth marks left behind; he ruts into you, rapid and deep, feeling you tense after one in particular, “Did I find something, pretty girl?”

You nod hastily, grip on his shirt tightening as he hits it again, “Yeah, don’t  _ stoh _ -stop!” He keeps angling for your g-spot, combining it with harsh tugs against your clit. Words fail you as he keeps at it, nothing but incoherent babbling slipping past your lips.

“Fucked stupid already?” He laughs, pulling away from your neck to stare at the way your eyes cross, “I bet you haven’t gotten laid in months - did you fuck yourself?” He stills as he waits for your answer, only moving slowly as to antagonize you.

You whine as you nod your head again. You don’t care that it’s embarrassing, you just need to cum. You attempt to move your hips, attempt to get more friction than his shallow thrusts and light rolling of your clit gives you but it’s futile - his strong hands keep you in place on top of the sink, keeps your back pressed against the mirror; you can feel condensation on it.

He grunts when you purposefully clamp down on him, “That's why you’re so tight, couldn’t fuck yourself properly with your tiny fingers.”

“Gonna-” you cut yourself off with a high pitched moan, “Suguru, please I’m gonna-” you feel your stomach tightening, your toes curling against the unforgiving material of your shoes as his thrusts turn deep and deliberate.

“Yeah, I know you are,” he smirks down at you, “c’mon, you gonna cum for me like a good girl?” You nod desperately; your short, consecutive moans fill the small room with each thrust, turning more into squealing when he begins moving his fingers against your clit again - he thinks you look good like this: brow drawn together, eyes nearly crossed as they roll back into your skull, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer; he definitely wouldn’t mind seeing you like this again. Maybe he’ll get your number.

A few more thrusts and you fall over the edge, squirming against him and keening, nearly shrieking when his pace doesn’t slow - he’s chasing his own high now, no concern for how overstimulated you might become. “ _ Tuh _ -too much, Suguru, too much!” It’s raking through your body, shockwaves that are prolonged with each movement of his hips; are you even still breathing? You can’t tell, and you’re so fucking warm you feel like you’re melting even as you’re seizing up.

“There you go,” he coo’s, petting your hair, “so,  _ fuck _ , so pretty.” He continues to rut into you, losing his rhythm and becoming erratic until he’s again biting your shoulder to muffle his sounds as he cums, stilling as he spills inside you.

He regains his composure not long after, pulling away from your shoulder and admiring the indent left behind. He grips your cheeks between his thumb and pointer finger, forcing a pout onto your lips as he takes in your dazed expression, “Such a dumb little thing.”

He’s still inside you when he pulls out his ringing phone, moving his hand to cover your mouth as his thumb hits the green button, “Hey babe,” he’s good at keeping his voice steady as your stomach drops, “yeah, I’ll be home in a bit - just making sure Kuroo gets into his ride okay, you know how low his tolerance is.” He hums into the line after bringing his phone to rest between his shoulder and ear, then pressing against your clit, making you jolt, “Love you too, bye.”

It's amazing - how he feels no guilt talking to his girlfriend (or wife for all you know) mere seconds after fucking you in a washroom; while he presses against your sensitive clit.

“So what’s your number?”

In your defence, you didn’t know he was with someone when he dragged you into the washroom.

You didn’t know there was someone you’d be hurting the  _ first _ time you fucked Suguru Daishō.

* * *

Suguru calls it ’falling into bed with another’. You call it adultery. Falling into bed is too elegant for what you do. You suppose you could call it cheating too, given his track record.

You know you shouldn’t have given him your number when you stare at the text message on your lock screen. It’s the second time this month.

**_[11:35 PM] Suguru:_ ** _ Can I come over? _

All you can bring yourself to do is sit on your couch and stare at your phone, careful not to actually open the message. You shouldn’t give in to him. You should leave him on read or block his number.

**_[11:37 PM] Suguru:_ ** _ Please baby. _

**_[11:38 PM] Suguru:_ ** _ I miss you. _

You’ve never actually met Mika,  _ it’s not as bad as it could be _ is what you tell yourself. Spoiler alert: it’s still just as bad because you know she exists. Because you know you’re the other woman. 

It’s his next message that makes you relent. He knows that this is how he gets what he wants from you - that you’ll never deny him so long as he says those three little words:

**_[11:40 PM] Suguru:_ ** _ I love you. _

You hold off a few minutes, only so you don’t appear too desperate. So that maybe he’ll send you something telling you to forget it, that he’s not coming over. 

He doesn’t

**_[11:44 PM] You:_ ** _ ok. _

He’s read it, that little indicator pops up under his message. He’ll be here in twenty-three minutes, give or take. It always takes him that long.

It’s not like you use the time to clean up your place - sure you take a shower and clean  _ yourself _ up a bit, maybe make your bed but never anything more. Your place is always in whatever state it’s in when he texts you - recently there's been more mess that you can’t even bring yourself to clean up on a good day.

The twenty-three minutes are mostly guilt-ridden. Usually, you think about his last message, his assured slam-dunk:  _ I love you _ . How can he say that while you’re the other woman? Why do you believe him?

It’s this anxiety - are you unloveable? It stems from having never been in a real relationship, you think; sure in high school you’d kissed a boy on the cheek and you’ve had a few flings since then, but never anything serious where they said they love you. Or maybe it’s because your parents didn’t hold you enough as a child?

Either way, the question remains: are you deserving of love, even after this?

His knocking on your door pulls you out of your thoughts - it’s just a formality, he has a key. You wonder what he tells Mika the key is for. 

_ I’ll tell him he can’t come over anymore, right now before he can get a word in _ . You open your mouth, staring in front of you as you prepare to tell him.

His arms drape around your shoulders from behind, leaning into your back from the side of your bed. He pulls your back to his chest, pressing his lips to your neck and lightly kissing a line up to your lips before softly pressing his to yours.

Your resolve crumbles as he pulls away, looking into your eyes.

“Hey beautiful,” he mumbles against your lips. You don’t taste any alcohol on him, he must’ve gotten into a fight with Mika. She fades from both of your minds as he sits beside you, pulling you into his lap. He’s so good at this - making it feel like it’s real, it’s almost a date. He puts on the television, flicking to the sports network.

“What happened?” You whisper as you become content in his arms.

“She says we never do what she wants.” He focuses on the game - baseball highlights from the other night.

You hum, “We always do what you want, too.”

His arms tighten, not too tight but rather as a warning, “Please don’t start, I don’t want to fight with you - I love you.” He knows you won’t attempt a rebuttal and you hate yourself for proving him right.

“I love you, too.” You taste vomit at the back of your throat as you say it.

“I love you so much,” he says fingers inching lower, “my perfect girl.” It’s his charisma again, forcing you to give in. 

“Suguru…” it’s breathy, slipping past your lips without much thought as his fingers reach your crotch. You say his name like a foreigner’s God because he is; he won’t be yours in the morning, he’ll be hers. You only get the privilege of worshipping him when he’s had one too many or she’s mad at him.

He kisses along your neck again, “C’mon, baby, show me you love me.” 

He gets off on this - you know he does. The way you chant his name, confess your love to him, gush around him; the fact that you  _ know _ you’re the other woman makes it that much better for him when you say you love him.

He gets off on the fact that guilt eats you up inside, but you keep coming back to him nonetheless. “There's no one who loves you more than I do,” he says while petting over your cunt, “and there's no one that loves me better than you.” there's a tone to his words that you can’t quite put a name to, but you know it’s meant to make you stay despite every bone in your body telling you to shut him out.

Or maybe you  _ do _ know it's manipulative, you just don’t want to admit it. 

His hands come to your thighs, placing them over the trunks of his; he sucks on your neck from behind and all you can feel is disgust, for him and for yourself the only thing you can feel is disdain. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter how disgusted you feel with yourself, not when you’re slurring his name and practically humping his hand, fingers stretching you out as he mutters praise in your ear.

It doesn’t matter when you keep letting him into your home; into your bed.

It doesn’t matter that the guilt is keeping you awake at night when you’re doing this to yourself.

You deserve the guilt.

* * *

“You look like shit,” Kenma says as his video feed comes to life on your monitor. 

Your eyes flit to your viewfinder - he’s right. You look exhausted in every sense of the word. What the fuck are you going to tell him? ‘ _ Sorry, Kenma - I’m so guilt-ridden over a piece of shit that's using me as a side piece that I can’t sleep; The only reason I’m still with him is that I’m terrified that I’m unlovable and he makes me feel like I’m not. _ ’ Oh yeah, that would go swimmingly.

“Just stressed,” is what you settle on because it’s not completely wrong. 

As the loading screen pops up he continues speaking, “You haven’t been out in a while.”

“You’re one to talk,”

“Kuroo and I are going out tonight, you should come with us,” he says as he lands on your island, meeting you at the dock - he thinks he’s going to donate a fossil he already has in hopes that it’ll lift your spirits, “he asked about you, he wouldn’t mind if you came to dinner with us.”

You catch him as he enters your museum, following him inside, “If I’m feeling up to it, maybe.” Your fingers roll over your joycons, going off to look at the exhibits in your museum - you like staring at the evolutionary one that your villagers help fill out.

“I won’t force you,” he says, “but it helps me when you or Kuroo get me to leave my apartment.” Kenma’s never this vulnerable, or outright caring - it makes your guilt worse to think that you’ve worried your friend this much.

“On second thought,” you yawn into your mic unintentionally, “dinner doesn’t sound too awful.” You know you’ll order something small, push it around your plate and not eat much.

You haven’t been eating too much lately - can’t seem to stomach it.

Kenma and Kuroo pick you up in the laters sports car, it’s a lot more casual then the first time you’d interacted with him at the party; it’s a lot more calming seeing him in a sweatshirt and jeans rather than a button-up and slacks. 

It’s nothing fancy, just the Matsuya a couple blocks over - even if it’s fast food it’s better than the crap you’ve managed to eat in the past months. Kuroo gets a set meal, Kenma gets gyumeshi, you settle on a plate of curry - it’s all joyfully mundane, just eating fast food with friends.

“We’re friends, right?” Kenma says as Kuroo leaves the table to get your orders.

“Of course, Kenma,”

“So you’d tell me if something was wrong?” He rests his hand on your forearm comfortingly - it’s out of character but it’s the first physical contact that hasn’t made you sick in nearly three months.

You feel like you’re going to break down crying.

He takes note of your uneven breathing, perceptive as always, “You can tell me later, only if you want to.”

You’re about to spill your guts, tell Kenma everything and beg for him to help you break things off but Kuroo comes back with your dinner.

And for once, you actually feel hungry. You think it’s Kuroo’s reassuring smile, or maybe it’s Kenma making you feel safe - like maybe you’re redeemable.

You don’t see it, but Kenma smiles as you wolf down your food. You actually finish your plate! You feel good, the snake bastard so far from your mind that you actually feel at peace. 

You also don’t see it when he frowns as your face drops. You don’t even have to take out your phone to know who’s calling you - it’s nine-thirty PM on a Friday night and you’re with Kenma right now. You feel nausea creeping over you. “Sorry, I… I have to take this,” you shuffle out from beside Kenma, walking to the curb before hitting that damn little green button.

“ _ Hello, pretty girl! _ ”

You cringe and pull your phone away from your ear, bringing it back and being met with pounding bass and a crowd cheering. He gets away with this because Mika doesn’t like partying - it was one of their arguments that landed him in your bed. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe I am,” he chuckles, “all I can think about is you - can I come over?”

You can tell him ‘no’ right now, you could tell him to never contact you again - if he throws a fit you can hang up, you can ask Kuroo and Kenma for help right now and be done with your guilt.

“C’mon,” he slurs, “I wanna show you how much I love you; you know I love you, right?” Even drunk, he knows your weak spot.

Your resolve once again crumbles and you hang your head, “I’m… out right now - let yourself in and I’ll see you when I’m home, yeah?”

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you,” you cave embarrassingly fast, “be safe?”

“I’ll see you at yours.” The line’s dead.

You can’t bring the phone away from your ear, even as your vision blurs with tears, as your shoulders shake, as you choke on sobs, curling into yourself. You stay like that longer than you should until you compose yourself enough to face Kenma and Kuroo. You know you’re not as composed as you should be, so you once again hang your head.

“I’d like to go home please.” You can feel their concerned stares.

They had cleared the table while you were outside, “Do you want us to keep you company?” Kuroo asks, tentatively reaching out in a comforting manner. 

“Yeah, just some dust in my eyes,” you smile as brightly as you can, feeling bile rise in your throat as he touches your shoulder, “besides, I’m exhausted - I think I’m going to sleep for twelve hours.” You say it mostly because you know that Kenma knows you haven’t been sleeping.

If Kenma’s being honest he’s just glad you ate something, so he relents and gets up to show Kuroo that he should too. It’s tenser on the ride back to yours, and yet Kuroo still takes the longer route.

“I’ll call you tomorrow?” Kenma asks, turning in the passenger’s seat to look at you.

You pause your unbuckling, meeting his gaze, “Yeah - we should go to your island instead of mine.” You could ask Kuroo to come inside and make Suguru leave. You can ask him and be done with it - plead with the Nekoma alumni to stay the night because you’re terrified that you’ll end up calling him and apologizing for Kuroo’s behaviour.

You don’t. 

You say goodbye to your friends, making the dreaded walk into your home.

It’s not dark inside - Daishō had turned on your bedroom light to wait for you.

There's a routine for nights like these, where he comes into your home drunk: you get him a glass of water to sober him up a bit, sit with him on your bed while you half pay attention to the sports program he turns on, and then (when he’s had the whole glass and the players no longer hold his interest) he’ll tell you how he adores you - he shows you.

And you let him because you’re really nothing more than a glorified insecure teenage girl.

His loving (with you at least) consists of biting, of tasting your skin and holding it between his teeth almost painfully. You don’t think Mika lets him do it, so he does it excessively with you. 

He finishes his glass, laying his head on your chest, “Where were you?” It’s not malicious as far as you can tell; you think he’s genuinely curious.

“Kenma and Kuroo took me to Matsuya - I had curry.” Your hand rakes through his hair because it almost feels normal. You feel disgustingly loved.

He hums, kissing your collarbone sweetly, “That's good - I’m glad you got out for a bit.”

You want to tell him that it’s his fault, he’s the reason you’re a mess and you can’t sleep, can’t eat.

But you don’t because of those three little words mumbled against your skin, “I love you,” it’s followed up by a bite to your shoulder and you know he’s grown bored with talking.

“You’re so pretty for me,” he mumbles against the mark, shifting so that you’re under him on your bed. 

You don’t like the way that you give in to him every time because he makes you feel loved, but you do because he’s so good at it.

A while later, your hand ghosts over the indents in your body, the bite marks and you look at him, skin pristine and without imperfection. It’s always like this - he gets to kiss and touch and mark as much as he wants but you can't put a scratch on him. It’s not fair, but you abide by it because you love him. Because he makes you feel loved when he’s kissing up your neck. Because when he lays beside you it almost feels like he’s yours if you press a feather-light kiss to his forehead when he’s sleeping.

You’re going to regurgitate your curry from earlier. You’re not redeemable. 

* * *

You’re tired, so fucking tired. You’ve started avoiding Kenma, never online when he is. You think it’s because if he questioned you, you’d tell him, and telling him would mean it was real and had actually happened and Kenma would judge you for it - for helping Suguru to fall into bed with another. 

You can’t hold him at arm's length forever; you can’t worry him like that. He’d probably show up at your place anyways. It’s a message from him that makes you feel worse than the past six months with Daishō

**_[10:14 PM] Kenma:_ ** _ Whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourself into doesn’t matter. _

It’s the only thing that plays through your mind when Suguru asks to come over and you give in to him. It fades from the forefront as he bites and licks at you but it’s still present.

It’s a revelation that comes to you in the dead of night - you deserve to love and be loved. You deserve this guilt, but you also deserve to be genuinely loved and what Suguru is giving you isn’t love no matter how much he insists it is.

You repeat it in your head as he snores beside you,  _ I deserve to be loved _ . You repeat it in your head as you take your phone from your nightstand,  _ I deserve to be loved _ . As you block his number,  _ I deserve to be loved _ . As you unlock his phone,  _ I deserve to be loved _ . When you go through his contacts and find Mika’s phone number,  _ I deserve to be loved _ . When you copy it into your own contact list,  _ I deserve to be loved _ .

You almost tell yourself you’ll do it in the morning, but you can’t tell if your resolve will last so you slip out of your room, pulling some clothes on and being careful to ensure that they're yours and not Daishō’s.

The living room is painfully quiet, only cars passing outside every few minutes. You press call on the recently copied number, shakily exhaling as you bring the phone to your ear - your throat tightens as if you’re about to cry, and you might for all you know.

“ _ Hello? _ ” A woman's voice comes through the line and you realize this is the most contact you’ve ever had with her.

You clear your throat, hoping to hold steady, “Is, um, is this Mika?”

“Yes, who’s calling?” Her voice is laced with sleep, you feel bad about waking her up, especially to tell her something like this.

“My name is (Y/n) (L/n),” your stomach churns, “I, um, I’m sorry for calling you this early, but if I didn’t now I never would.” You wipe at your cheek with the heel of your palm, “I’m actually sorry about a lot of things that shouldn’t be apologized for over the phone.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,”

“Could we get coffee tomorrow, or later today I guess?” You choke on a sob, “I just - I need to apologize in person and-and I understand if you say no, I’m just a random girl calling you at three in the-”

“Calm down,” her voice is so soothing that you instantly do, “there’s a coffee shop I enjoy, we can meet there, okay?” She says the name of the cafe - not long after you can hear rustling in your room, soon after a face appears in the doorway.

“Okay,” you say, maintaining eye contact Daishō, “thank you.” You sniffle as the line goes dead, pushing yourself off the couch. You’ll let Daishō stay the night, you won’t have him manipulate Mika any more.

You and her deserve actual love, not whatever the fuck Diashou has been giving you both.

You make sure to tell him that when he appears in your doorway two days later, red in the face and prepared to cut you to pieces. You don’t let him say a word, “I deserve actual love.”

**Author's Note:**

> i promise you that you are deserving of love.  
> thank you for reading, comments and kudos are appreciated!


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